Internal Affairs
by Queenofthegreatescape
Summary: She shouldn't have to see a shrink. The shooting was totally justified. Little did she know that after entering that door her life would change forever. Brittana!
1. Chapter 1

Internal Affairs

Chapter 1

The name plate on the door read Dr. Chase Strathorn.

You hesitate with your hand just inches from the door knob. Were you supposed to knock? Or just go in? It had already been an exhausting week and this "evaluation" on Friday might just take you over the edge. So much had happened since Monday. The shooting and then the victims' families you had to speak with and then the media hype and now this. Talking about feelings of the event. Reliving it out loud with a person who has undoubtedly only lived this kind of life from behind a desk listening to other people's stories and reading about it on reports.

You had to fire on Tremont Williams or you and your partner could both be dead. So why in the world do you have to go to talk to a police shrink about this whole thing? You fired the gun but it didn't take the life of Williams. Your partner had taken a bullet in the arm. It all had happened so fast that you were lucky no one died at the scene although you understand Williams was in critical condition. You are still nursing a bruised head from the pistol whipping you received when your back was turned but you are more than thankful you were still able to walk away from the scene and not be carted off in an ambulance or worse yet, in a body bag.

Your report of the events was now a matter of record but you still find yourself carrying it with you for this meeting. You opened the folder as you leaned against the wall of the hallway by the door of Dr. Strathorn.

_"It had happened just before midnight on Monday. I, Detective Brittany S. Pierce and my partner Sam Evans were stopping by an apartment in the 4700 block of Winchester to respond to a domestic disturbance call we received on our radio." _

Nothing is ever routine about any call you get but usually domestics meant the husband/boyfriend was drunk or high and the wife/girlfriend was getting yelled at or smacked around. They seldom pressed charges and it makes me sad. This was the one part of my job you never cared for... seeing others feeling like they had no other option but to remain in a volatile situation.

You remember everything like it was happening now. You don't even need to read the report. It is still so vivid in your mind.

_"Are you ready to go in?," Sam asked. _

_"Yes," you had answered with your hand close to your hip where your Glock was holstered. _

_Sam knocked and identified us as police. A woman answered the door with a cigarette in one hand seemingly confused. "Why the hell are you people here?"_

_"We are responding to a call of domestic disturbance," you had stated. "What call?" the woman replied but it was all she had time to get out before you saw a shadow pause at the end of the hallway leading toward the door where you and Sam were seeking interest The figure had taken off down the hall opening the door to the stairs. _

_You had pushed back from the wall and ran after the figure, Sam right behind you yelling "Stop, Police". You reached the door to the stairs before he did and you had kicked the door open with your foot, gun in hand. _

"Are you Detective Pierce?"

You jump as the voice interrupts your trip down a hellish memory lane. Once you refocus you notice a very short woman with long dark hair standing next to you. Masculine hands on either side of her hips and a kind but guarded look in her eyes. She wore an argyle sweater and skirt that came just below her knees with socks pulled up and flat shoes. Fashion was obviously not her forte. Brown eyes, pale skin. No purse. No coat. She wasn't arriving for the first time to the door you surmise. Instant thoughts like this always fill your head quickly. Subconscious part of the job. Take in the scene. See things others don't. Even if things seem on the up and up, your gut can sometimes tell you when something seems a bit off. Always follow your gut was one of the first lessons you learn as a police officer. And that's how you make Detective as fast as you did.

"Excuse me, hello?" There was a slight edge of annoyance to her voice... but you somehow immediately got the gut feeling she was always like this.

"I'm sorry. Yes, I am Detective Pierce."

"Then you must be the 4:00 appointment," the woman replied. "Please come on in," she continued and held the door open gesturing with her head for you to go on through in front of her.

"I'm Rachel Berry. Assistant." The woman held her man hand out and you reach to shake it. "They're running a few minutes late. I hope you don't mind waiting here in our lobby," the woman continued as she waved her hand across the room.

"They," you inquire with an eyebrow raised.

"Oh, um, the doctor. Please feel free to sit anywhere."

It wasn't expansive...just a few chairs and magazines on a table. A desk in the corner by the door was where the assistant now sat. "I'll let you know when you can go back," she states and begins to type away at the computer on her desk. You take it as a sign she is done talking. You settle into a chair in the middle of the room and find yourself taking a deep breath. To sit for a moment feels good... you feel like you have been in a constant state of motion since Monday afternoon when you went on shift. You wish you could rewind the clock and then none of this would be happening. You could be wrapping up for the day and going home to your apartment and your cat and your life, such that it is. Familiarity was escaping you now when really all you want was to be back in your normal routine. Before everything was so complicated. You try to flip through a magazine but it doesn't hold your interest for long.

_"I'm really not hungry," you told him again as we walked out of the precinct._

_"But Britt you know Breadstix has a great special on Mondays. In addition to all you can eat breadsticks they have the all you can eat angel hair pasta," Sam exclaimed lowering his head to be able to better utilize his puppy dog eyes. _

_You sighed because you knew how much Sam loved pasta, regardless of how hypocritical it was since it was loaded with carbs and Sam was always trying to let you see his ridiculous abs. "Ok, let's go," you had told him. "But I don't want to stay more than 45 minutes. I have some errands to run during my break today and I want to make sure I have the extra time. Why don't I drive my car and you take ours and that way I can run out when I need to and then we can meet back up at the station and see what's going on." _

_Sam nodded agreeably, visions of Breadstix undoubtedly dancing in his head._

_You opened the door to my BMW, one of the few luxuries you allowed yourself to purchase with the money your parents had left you. The things you would do for Sam you thought with a slight smile. You had been working together for 7 years now and were friends. You didn't hang out much during your time off together - which didn't seem to be very often - because you got enough of each other at work. And while you knew you could talk to Sam about anything and felt confident the feeling was mutual, you both maintain a slight professional edge to your relationship. Especially after you turned him down when he asked you out during your second year together as partners. It took some adjusting to his ego but you both got through it. And now it was about knowing either of us would take a bullet for the other and that was enough. There was no need to actually converse about such intimacies._

_It was a 10 minute drive to Breadstix that you had managed to make in less than 6. Pulling into the parking lot, you had heard your phone chime signaling a text message had been received. You grabbed your phone and looked at the message but noted the number was blocked. "8p at the Cherokee Park fountain." You had made a mental note that it must be one of your C.I.s who perhaps had some information. They liked to meet more face-to-face mostly so they could get some cash out of the deal. The better the info, the more likely they were to see $20 or so._

_You sat down on the booth and mulled over the message waiting for Sam - a much slower driver. "Hey did you order for us yet?" he said as he slid into the opposite seat. _

_"No, I told you I wasn't hungry so I am just going to get a bowl of the minestrone or something. Go crazy though," you grinned._

"Amazing how life can change in the blink of an eye," you find yourself thinking as you stop the memory and come back into focus on where you are and what had occurred in the past 5 days. A quick glance at your watch confirms it is 4:15. Dr. Strathorn was more than just a few minutes late and you are more than annoyed. You're tired and you don't want to be doing this. You don't need to talk to a shrink about the shooting because it was legitimate. No PTSD for you and hell you wonder why this is even part of the department guidelines. You're a fucking detective with 4 years on the job. A spotless record. You want to go home and take a long, hot bubble bath and put this week behind you. Now you're getting angrier. You began to get up from the chair to express your displeasure with this whole thing when you hear the phone that sits on the desk ring. The assistant Rachel answers it.

"Yes?" she speaks into the receiver. "Ok, do you need me to stay or to bring the file in?" she states after listening in silence for a few minutes. "Ok then," she finishes and lightly puts the phone back in the cradle.

"You can go back now," the assistant says her tone and face a little more serious than before as she points to the only other door in the room besides the one we entered together.

You are halfway out of your chair already so you rise fully and head to the door, opening it. You're even more annoyed because no one has entered the waiting room the entire time you have been sitting there. Had Dr. Strathorn been in the room the entire time and kept you waiting? If that was the case you and the doctor were definitely getting off on the wrong foot. Which you would be sure to convey. Loudly. Your patience is gone. Upon entering you pull the door closed with a slight slam trying to make sure you set the tone for the first conversation the good doctor and you are going to share.

You quickly survey the room. Habits you know. The room is large, larger than the waiting room. A desk is on the left hand side with what appears to be a comfortable chair behind it along with papers and a calendar in plain view. A laptop sits atop the desk but is closed. There is a large couch that could seat three people comfortably on the right side of the room. Two chairs face the couch slightly along with each other. A small refrigerator is next to the desk and has a coffee maker on it. And at the back of the room there is a door. You can hear water running and determine it must be a bathroom. You pace for a moment and then take a seat on the couch. You hear the water stop and you sit up a little straighter on the couch waiting to meet Dr. Strathorn, preparing to give him a piece of your mind.

What you aren't prepared for is the person who stepped out of the bathroom. A woman. With long black hair that is swept back into a ponytail that gathered at the base of her neck. She is wearing a red shirt that has the first two buttons open allowing a tasteful view of her skin to show, a tan skirt that reached just above her knees - tight but not tacky - and some tan pumps. She has no rings on her hands but wears a necklace that appears to have a round silver ball on it. Small earrings that are also silver and hands that appear soft and well-manicured. The job trains you to notice a lot of things about people right away. Clothes, jewelry, any identifying marks. Sizing them up just like a room. Superficial review of people and surroundings. Quick and sans emotion. No real judgment enters into it. Just facts.

And the fact is this woman is simply stunning.

You feel your breath pick up a bit, your senses a bit heightened like you just opened a door to a room where you are not sure what is going to be there to find.

She walks right up to you. You rise to your feet from the couch with a slight look of confusion. The woman's heels allow her some height but she is still a few inches shorter than you even with them on. She is even more stunning up close if that could be possible.

"I...I'm sorry," you stutter. "I guess I'm in the wrong place. I was supposed to have a meeting with Dr. Chase Strathorn," you finish as the woman tilts her head to the side and gives you a slight smile. "You are clearly not him." No kidding, you think.

The woman looks at you for a moment longer, just enough to make you almost start speaking again, almost like she is sizing you up as well before extending her hand. "My name is Santana Lopez," she says as you close your hand around the smaller woman shaking it but never losing eye contact. You feel a little off center as you look into the chocolate eyes that meet your own. Probing almost with the depth of them. You admit silently to yourself that you are taken aback by the woman's presence, her aura. Because you aren't expecting it.

Not because she is gorgeous.

Even though in your line of work you know you should be more prepared for the unknown... but in all honesty this woman has caught you off guard not just because you were expecting someone else. The room feels charged with electricity. You pause for a moment realizing you haven't yet let go of the woman's hand.

"And I gather you are Detective Pierce," the woman continued as your hands finally part. She sits in one of the chairs while motioning for you to resume your place on the couch with a subtle nod of her head.

"Well ma'am I don't know where the misunderstanding has occurred but I will be happy to find out and determine where I...," you begin.

"No, there's no mistake Detective Pierce. This meeting was scheduled so we could talk."

"So you are the one I am supposed to talk to about the shooting," you continue as you sit a little deeper into the couch. You begin to gather your file from the table in-between the two of you.

"Yes Detective, we are going to discuss the shooting."

You sit still for a moment collecting your thoughts. The woman is sitting across from you with a warm but distant smile on her face and her hands clasped in her lap. Typical shrink you think to yourself. Not giving anything away - expression unreadable.

"Before we start, I want to review your file with you so we can skip over what I know about you Detective."

"Really," you reply with the slight smile and an arch of your eyebrow, "Just what exactly do you know?" You are trying to relax, to regain some sort of control over your heart that is beating a little too fast. Nerves, you think to yourself. Must be nerves over talking to a shrink. You never were a very good liar….even to yourself.

The woman stands from the chair and walks over to the desk grabbing the laptop and returns to the chair across from you. She hits several keystrokes and then begins to read from a screen you cannot see.

"Lets see," she begins, 'I know you are one of the more highly decorated detectives in the division and that you have a very high conviction rate. You were made Detective within 18 months on the force, one of the youngest females to so do in the state. I know that you just were at a scene where two people were shot. The one you shot is in critical condition. The other is your partner Sam Evans," she states without much inflection.

You look at her closely and consider rising from the couch. Even in her sitting position she seems in charge of the room. You are actually breathing a bit heavier trying to keep your emotions in check when you reply, " Yes but with the news media coverage you aren't telling me much that everyone doesn't already know."

The woman considers you for a moment before going back to reading from the screen.

"I know you spend most of your nights at home alone or at the bar across the street from your apartment. I know on Saturdays when there is a DJ at said bar that you like to dance but only by yourself. I know you have a BMW but I also know you own a red crotch rocket that you rarely ride. You have few friends but the ones you do spend time with are close to you. I know you are sexually active but that you aren't seeing anyone exclusively at this time. I know that you have a sister that you barely speak to except on holidays. And I know that every 17th of the month after your work day is done you take flowers to the cemetery and place them on the gravestones of your parents who died when you were 21."

You stand up, your mouth open. Your face is flaming with emotions you don't quite know how to define: anger, embarrassment. You almost feel violated. You step forward without thought, thankful the table is between you so you don't end up in her face. Your blood pumping through your veins and your adrenaline matching it beat for beat. You are completely caught off guard again with her and you react.

"What the fuck kind of shrink are you?" you growl through gritted teeth.

Her eyes soften but she still holds her authoritative demeanor. She closes the laptop and places it on the table before standing from the chair, keeping her eyes on you the entire time.

You start to talk before you even really know what you are going to say. " I….I thought the whole point of this was for me to come here and talk about the shooting, get my 'feelings' about the shooting off my chest so that you could evaluate me and clear me to get back on the streets. I get paperwork that states I am to meet with Dr. Chase Strathorn and I'm at his door and instead find you here. Then you pull a file on me and recite back to me personal information that a police shrink could not know unless they have either been talking about me with others and they have been snooping around my personal life. Either way this is complete bullshit and I am done listening to it."

You begin your way around the table opposite where she stands and toward the door.

You are almost at the door when you hear her speak again

"Please wait Detective."

"You fucking doctors are all the same," you say and reach for the door handle.

"I'm not a doctor, Detective."

You slowly turn to face her and see she has taken a few steps in your direction.

"I'm Lieutenant Santana Lopez. Internal Affairs."

You stand there yet again with your mouth open.

Her eyes hold yours steady.

"But please, call me Santana."

You stand at the door for what seems like hours but in actuality was only 30 seconds.

"Please if you will sit down I will explain to you what I can," the woman I now knew as Lieutenant Lopez said in a soft voice.

You walk back to the couch slowly, not even conscious of your legs taking you there. You are trying to wrap your head around what could possibly be going on. You sit down and look at her, your eyes meeting hers for a moment. Electricity again. She begins to speak.

"We first took interest in you when you scored so high on the Detective exam. While it has occurred before your scores coupled with your quick rise in the department flagged you on our radar. We watched your career as it developed, keeping tabs on your training, on your arrests, on the professional relationships you gathered along the way. It is unusual for a female to perform so well within the department. Unfortunately this job has its silent prejudices about women and their role. So when you seemingly broke through the unspoken barriers we wondered why it appeared to be easier for you to accomplish than we usually note."

She continues as you sit still on the couch, your muscles tense, your eyes looking at everything but seeing nothing as you try to piece this together in the back of your mind.

"We kept the information on you in a file and we would add to it when something happened. A new arrest, a change in your relationship status, an event that might be worth noting. Something we thought was a little out of the ordinary in what mostly was an ordinary life." She continues to look at you and she talks. Never breaking eye contact. It's becoming unnerving.

"We kept this up for the 3 years you had been a Detective until July 27th of last year and we moved you into what we in Internal Affairs call a 'Condition Status.' It makes you a more," she hesitates only a moment to seemingly try and find the right words. "A more controlled candidate for lack of a better term."

"July 27th? That was almost 10 months ago," you state.

"Yes, I know," she replies. "Once you move to a Condition Status you are assigned a specific handler that digs a little deeper into your everyday life and happenings. But before that your past is further explored and the information previously on file is reviewed by people that provide an opinion as to your overall well-being. They predict who you are, how you operate. And as a handler we make sure the predictions match what we see in every day work and personal operation."

"Handler?" You are so taken aback by all of this you can't even formulate a full question but she seemed to understand and nods her head.

"I was assigned as your handler on August 1. I have been documenting your life since that time. It is my job Detective Pierce and in no way as your handler is anything I document shared with anyone else. I was given your file with the synopsis of your character, the predictions of your responses to certain events that may occur moving forward. How you might respond in a stressful setting at work, a difficult situation in your personal life. Those type of things. But my notes on you are not read by anyone. They are my notes in my laptop and they are not shared."

"I tell you this because I know it is a lot to take in right now. And while I know trust is the furthest thing from your mind when it comes to me, you can indeed trust me Detective. I am your Handler."

You take a deep breath in the attempt to get your emotions back under control. To wrap your head around what you have just been told. She seems to sense your demeanor shift from anger to confusion. You see her rise from the chair and head over to the desk, reaching to open the small refrigerator. You can't help but watch her the entire way. She pulls out something and brings it to you.

It was a Snapple Green Tea. You look at her hand holding the bottle in front of you and then back to her eyes. Fucking Snapple Green Tea. What you drink nearly every day. You half huff with a grin that holds absolutely no humor in it but you don't take your eyes off hers. It's like you can't. You unconsciously feel yourself allow her to place it your hand. The bottle feels cold against the heat of your skin.

"Jesus, you know what I drink? What else do you know?"

She simply resumes her seat. But she then looks at you intensely, as if she is not sure what to say next. But her eyes hold yours steady and show no fear.

"I know we need your help, Detective."

You just sit there, your brain firing in 100 different ways. Responses and scenarios in your head occurring faster than you can process. Your breathing is shallow, your heart pounding, your hands sweating. You can't focus.

You have to get out of here. It's like the attacks you used to get for the first six months after your parents died.

You stand. You look at her but you don't really see her. You cannot figure out what to do, what this means, what is going on. "I have to go," you tell her as you walk briskly toward the door and open it.

"Detective," you hear her begin but you hear nothing else as you shut the door behind you.

Rachel must be gone as her desk sits empty when you come through the waiting room and out the main door. You walk down the hall and out the front of the building toward your car. You half expect to hear the Lieutenant behind you. But no one is coming through the front doors of the building as you put the key in the ignition and drive away. You only live 15 minutes from the precinct but you don't even recall the drive home. Before you know it you are parked in your assigned spot in your apartment complex. You enter the apartment and place your keys in the dish by the front door and your purse on the hook of the hall butler that rests just inside entrance.

You go to the kitchen and open the refrigerator to grab a beer and see the Snapple Green Tea bottles on the door. You immediately close it without grabbing anything and lean against the door, your head back and eyes closed. This is not a beer kind of night, you think to yourself. This is a night that calls for tequila. You go to your room and put your gun and holster in the nightstand drawer next to the bed and sit down on the purple duvet. You take your fingers and massage your scalp, pulling your blonde hair back with each stroke. You cannot think about this tonight. You don't even know what it means let alone what Santana Lopez wants from you.

You change into jeans and a white tee shirt, some flip flops. Your cat Lord Tubbington saunters in and rubs his head against your legs before jumping up and lying in his usual spot at the foot of the bed. You give him a few strokes under the chin like he enjoys but your mind is a million miles away. Jesus this week has thrown you completely off center. You can't think about it now. You'll think about it tomorrow.

Tonight you're getting shit faced.

You grab your keys and your wallet and lock up, heading to Seasons. The bar sits only two blocks down and a street over from your apartment which is important when your plan is to get drunk. DUIs don't reflect well on people who are supposed to uphold the law and everything.

It's Friday night and Seasons is already filling up. People often come in after work on Fridays. People with normal Monday through Friday, 9 to 5 type jobs because what better way to unwind from your week of staring at a computer in your boring office job then meeting your friends coming from their boring office jobs.

All you wanted was to unwind yourself from this hell of a week with a hot bath, lit candles and a bottle of wine. Instead you walk into the bar and sit on the first open stool you find by the door and give John behind the bar a slight wave. Terry may own the place but John really runs it. He is the main bartender but he really oversees everything out front on the weekends which is their busiest time of course. Terry works more in the afternoons. John's shift starts at 6 and when he gets here Terry heads to the back. Katie is the other regular weekend bartender but she really just follows John's directions.

John sees your wave and acknowledges you with a nod of his head but he is busy getting an order together and holds a quick finger up letting you know he will be there in a second.

You drop your keys and wallet on the bar and fish your phone out of your back pocket. You see it shows 6:20. Two hours ago you were sitting in a waiting room worrying about sounding good to the shrink so they could approve you and get you back on the job. Two hours ago your life made sense, your future a little gray with the shooting and all but it comes with the job and you knew it was justifiable and in the end you weren't all that concerned about what was next. Now you have no idea. You look further on the phone and see 2 missed calls. Both are from Sam. You had placed your phone on silent for the appointment and failed to put your ringer back on in your haste to get out of there. There is only one voice mail and after punching in your code you place your phone to your ear and put your finger in your other so you can hear well.

"Hey Brittany, it's me. I wanted to see how the shrink appointment went. Did he note you as certifiable because we've all been taking bets." Sam chuckled a little. "Nah, seriously I was just checking in with you. I guess one of the benefits of getting shot is that I don't come back to work for another 4 weeks. And only then after they make sure my arm is ok. I heard they were giving you the weekend off. I'm glad. Try to enjoy it... and Brittany if you need to talk you know I'm here." You smile slightly and delete the message. You put the phone back down and see John in front of you, his grin a little too contagious as yours widens.

"Hey there stranger...what'll it be tonight babe?"

"Stranger?" you reply. "Jeez John maybe I come in here too much if it's been a week and you are calling me stranger."

"You're right. I should be asking for your autograph or something huh? I saw you all over the newspapers on Tuesday. Actually I should swing around the bar and give you a hug. I am glad you're ok," he said as he absent mindedly wiped the bar with a towel and placed a napkin down. "First round on me ok? So what'll it be?"

"Well you know I love Don Eduardo Anejo but I won't make you pay for that so make it a Patron please. Salt and lime as well if you could."

"Of course but I couldn't have bought you the Don Eduardo anyway," he said pointing to an empty place on the shelf. "We're out."

Probably a good thing you think and immediately feel tired. Exhausted. You look in the mirror above the bar to see what was going on behind you. White collar workers abound. A large party celebrating someone's birthday was close to where the band would be setting up in about 2 hours. Couples sharing glasses of wine and some college aged kids with pitchers of beer littering the tables. The place was pretty full even at half past six. The bar stretched nearly the length of the place...so long you really couldn't see the end of it. As you glance to your right you can see mostly single people sitting here, watching the TVs to see the local news and waiting for the latest sporting event to begin. There are some regulars that you know from frequenting the place but only for meaningless and quickly forgotten conversation about weather, politics and scores of the most recent ballgames.

During your quick review of the place John had come and gone with your drink. You lick the webbing of your left hand, sprinkle some salt, lick it off and take the shot back. It was a "John shot" meaning it was the equivalent of two but you manage in one easy swallow, relishing the burn on the back of your throat as you follow with the lime. He left you an ice water as well and you sip on it allowing the tequila to take effect. You look up toward the TVs but your mind plays back that what you were trying so desperately to forget.

"We need your help." The mantra played back in your head over and over. Along with her eyes. How they looked at you with such intensity. Intrigued by her the moment you saw her. Feeling some sort of pull toward her even after she said who she was, when she told you to call her by her first name. Santana. That was before the fear and confusion took over. Before you walked out the door without looking back,

"John, another please." You don't want to think. Not tonight. Tonight was about drinking it away. The shooting, the meeting, the fear, the confusion. You don't want to think about her. Her eyes. Her name.

He brought another down. Another "John shot." Another lime. Another burn down the back of your throat. You feel it as you sit and listen to those around you talk. You continue to stare at the TVs, but your mind still sees her. You check your phone again and it reads 7:40. Time is flying and you are buzzing.

You see John busy at the other end of the bar but still manage to catch his attention with a nod of your head toward the empty shot glass. He frowns almost imperceptibly but nods and pours another handing it to Katie and pointing to you. She turns and looks, seeing you with the empty glass and heading down your way. She sits it in front of you and asks if you need anything else. You shake your head and began your routine of the lick, shoot, suck. It is loud in here but the bar area is starting to clear out a bit. The tables are still full though since they are more conducive to conversations with friends. As a result John is hopping at the far end of the bar as the servers come to pick up the orders from the tables. Katie was hanging around down by where you were seated, the front door of the place fairly close to your left since you are at the farthest end of the bar.

"Well, it wasn't Don Eduardo but it will do," you say to Katie. Not slurring but a little loose lipped. She grins wiping down the bar area even though there really wasn't any mess to clean.

"Yeah, you know we don't keep much of it here because really you're the only one that ever orders it and even then only occasionally," Katie says as she refills my nearly empty water glass.

"I only get it when I have had a particularly tough week," you reply making small talk.

"Yeah that's why when Terry told me someone had bought the entire last bottle I thought it might be you," Katie says washing out some glasses. "John has been talking about you being on the news and in the papers so I figured this would be the definition of tough week for you."

"Someone bought the whole bottle?"

"Yep. Came in around 5:30, before John's shift and got Terry. I knew that John wouldn't have done that because he was telling me earlier this week he thought you might be in sometime soon and want it. But that's not what was odd..." Katie trails off.

"What was odd?"

"It was that they had us bag it but has spent the whole night down at the far end of the bar all night just drinking water. I mean why buy it here when you could have easily gone to Liquor Barn and gotten it for probably half of what Terry charged," Katie continues.

But you barely hear anything more. You go rigid and slowly turn your head to the mirror to better see the end of the bar. As people have cleared out it has become easier to see to the end so it was only a few seconds before you spot her eyes in the mirror. Looking right at you. Her lips around a straw as she sips her water. Her eyes still not losing contact when she sits the glass down, puts her elbows on the bar and clasps her hands under her chin.

You gather up your phone and keys, drop a $50 bill on the bar counter and stand up turning to the door. You stand there for just a moment. You turn around. She turns slightly on the stool and watches you as you walk toward her. She moves her purse off of the barstool next to her and looks back toward the TVs. But somehow you know that she isn't really watching them just like you weren't. She is looking in the mirror at you as you slide onto the stool next to her that she just freed for you. You can't help but hold eye contact with her - but only through the mirror behind the bar.

Fucking electricity again.

She opens her purse and takes the recently purchased bottle of tequila from it, sitting it on the bar. John comes over to where you now sit with unasked questions behind his eyes.

"Two shot glasses please," you ask him. "A salt shaker and plenty of lime."

"Hello Detective," the dark haired beauty says while John goes to get the tequila accoutrements you requested, never losing eye contact through the mirror.

You break the eye contact as you turn to the right but only slightly facing her. She does the same. You see she has changed clothes. Skinny jeans, gray shirt with a low scooping neck revealing the necklace. Hair now out of the ponytail and hanging in loose curls down her back. Red lipstick, some of which has come off on the straw in her water. Gorgeous.

"Hello again," you reply as John opens the bottle of Don Eduardo and pours a healthy shot in each glass before putting it down and sliding the salt and a number of limes on a napkin between the two of you.

You lick the webbing between your thumb and forefinger again and apply the salt. You suck it clean, shoot the tequila and suck noisily on the lime before slamming the shot glass back on the bar. She hasn't picked up her glass yet.

"Is it really that good of tequila, Detective?"

You turn and fully face her, shoulders squared to her body next to you. She closes her eyes in merely an elongated blink and matches your movement, your knees nearly touching. She meets your eyes again with such intensity you are almost at a loss for words.

Almost.

You breathe out, tasting the tequila on your tongue as you swipe it across your lips. Your eyes lock with hers. Electricity.

"If we are going to be working together Santana," you say making sure you don't slur. " I guess it would be better if you start calling me Brittany."


	2. Chapter 2

Internal Affairs

Chapter 2

You watch Santana take the tequila to her lips. She kicks it back slow but manages the entire contents of the glass with no trouble. She has done this before, you can tell. She takes the lime in-between her teeth and sucks, her eyes squinting for a minute against the bitter taste.

You already told yourself that if she takes another shot there is no way you are going to watch her lick a wet spot onto her hand again for the salt.

"I told you it was good tequila," you manage with a slight smile on your face.

You are both sitting at the bar, facing the TVs now. It seems easier somehow to not face each other as you drink. As you allow whatever this is to marinate between you. This new sense of professionalism, this new relationship. You don't really know what is going on but you also know that you're not going to find out on a Friday night in the middle of this bar. But maybe you will be able to learn something...

"How did you find this place?"

Her words shift you out of the alcohol induced conversation you are carrying on in your own head.

"I figured you would know," you reply not bothering to hide the slight sarcasm in your voice.

She only sits there and looks at you through the mirror behind the bar. Watching you. Waiting for you to answer her question.

"I moved into my apartment 3 years ago and found the bar a few days later. It wasn't long until it was a regular hangout for me since it is so close. Plus they serve food until 10 and I there's no point in cooking for just me so it was a nice place I could go after I got off shift and wind down."

You don't mention the fact that with it being walking distance it keeps you out of trouble. You figure she knows.

"It's nice," she says to you looking down at her now empty glass. "Feels very welcoming."

You nod. But you don't want her to be the only one asking questions. You have plenty of your own.

"Where do you like to go?"

She turns her head to look you in the eye, her own eyes slightly widened. You think she is taken aback by the question but you figure if she knows so much about you surely you can ask her questions that are really nothing more than small talk. And deflection.

"Nowhere." But she hesitates like she's given something away and it takes her a moment to regain her composure. "Um, I am a fan of bars like this. Something within the neighborhood, something close to home."

You can tell she isn't going to give you details about her life. You feel annoyed since she has confessed to knowing so much about you but honestly you're too exhausted and don't feel like challenging her. You don't feel like trying to read her. You don't know what you feel right now... but you do know your mission night was to feel nothing. That was the whole point of you coming out here tonight. Getting drunk.

John is busy so you grab the bottle yourself to pour each of you another shot of the Eduardo.

"How did you know I would be here?"

She is hesitant again. She doesn't feel comfortable talking with you. Not here. She had no problem telling you all she knew about you in her office a few hours ago. But it was safe there. She was in control. Here you are on a more even playing field and perhaps you have the upper hand because this is your space. Your bar. But it makes you think…

You turn and face her. She swivels slightly toward you in the chair.

"Have you ever been here before?" you ask her.

She turns back and squares herself again to the bar. She takes a deep breath and exhales and says nothing. But you realize that she is answering you without words.

She has been here. In some way her being here prior to tonight revolved around you.

You feel the anger start low in your gut all over again.

She is given an out though as John comes over and refills your water glasses again. Santana looks up at the TVs. John eyes her and then looks at you with a tilt of his head and a smirk on his face. If she notices she doesn't let on but you know what he's thinking. You furrow your brow at him. He simply smiles and walks down to grab another order from a server.

"I should get going," she says and you try to maintain your composure because you have so many questions. And you don't want her to leave.

"But you have to finish that last shot," you reply eyeing the glass in front of her. "It is against the law to waste good tequila. I wouldn't want to have to arrest you." You wonder if she reads too far into the statement.

She smiles slightly and picks up the shot glass. No salt this time, she simply shoots back the liquid and sets the glass back onto the bar. She doesn't even wait for you to join her in the drink.

"I'll be in touch," she tells you as she gathers her purse and begins to seek out her wallet from inside.

"I got it," you tell her referring to the tip. "You already bought the entire bottle of tequila."

She smiles at you again. Her eyes meet yours. Electric.

"Goodnight Brittany."

You just about melt hearing your name from her lips for the first time.

"Goodnight Santana."

She walks back toward the bar entrance and you stop following her out of your peripheral vision about half way and you stare blindly at the tequila in front of you. You hear the chime of the door and you know she is gone.

You have so many questions. What does this mean? When will she be in touch? What is this help she said she needed? How could she have been here before if you were here? You would have remembered that. You would have picked her out of a crowd, you just know it.

None of these questions could be something you can answer now. You don't even think you want to know.

You wonder if you can finish this bottle before you pass out. That's the one question you can answer. Perhaps the only thing right now you can control. You shoot the tequila in front of you and pick up the bottle, fill your glass again and decide to find out.

/

You wake up to the sun streaming in from your windows. You roll onto your back and try to gather yourself as you come from that state of sleep to being awake. You realize it is quite possible that your mouth has never been this dry in your entire life. Fucking tequila. Fucking Eduardo...

You sit up with a shot.

Tequila.

Santana.

The sudden movement to a sitting position ends up being a very bad idea as your head spins. Your stomach isn't quite sure if it's going to cooperate with you this morning either since you didn't cooperate very well with it last night. By the way, you did finish the bottle it reminds you.

You recall the evening at least up until Santana left. Then all you remember is the haze. That state where events were just on the tip of your tongue but not quite reachable. You do remember walking home but even that isn't quite all there.

You're glad you have the weekend off because you have a raging headache and because you have things you need to do. You find yourself in the kitchen after a hot shower getting yourself some aspirin and water. You give Lord Tubbington fresh food and water and he silently thanks you by nudging through your legs as he makes his way to the bowls.

You open the front door and grab the paper. Lay it on the table and eat a sandwich since you don't really like breakfast foods unless you are in the mood. Plus your stomach needs something on it quickly. You're confident there is still alcohol in there that needs to be absorbed.

Routines sound good right about now.

It's Saturday and it's going to be pretty outside or so says the paper as you flip through the main headlines. Maybe you will go down to the park and feed the ducks. You need some more down time. Something mindless to occupy you and to hopefully allow you time to get rid of this hangover.

You grab your keys, wallet and phone and head out the door.

There's a gas station a few blocks from the park and you stop there to buy a loaf of bread. Cherokee Park is beautiful and is very crowded today but you manage to find a parking spot not too far from the edge of the pond. You find yourself down by the water and you don't really even remembering walking there. You are thinking about the last week. Everything that has happened.

The ducks are hungry and before you know it the loaf of bread is gone and you walk to a bench away from the pond, a signal to the ducks that they need to move on to someone else.

It is relatively loud by the bench as there is a large family gathering under a rotunda by the swings. Celebrating a birthday it appears. The adults are sitting at picnic tables and visiting while the kids play on swings and slides and other contraptions that make up the play land.

You smile but it is bittersweet. You remember being that 8 year old blonde girl hanging upside down from the monkey bars while your parents watched. Your dad helping your baby sister on the other end of the see saw and you seemed like you were so high in the air for those moments until it was your turn to fall back down to earth… only to push off again.

You look around some more and see joggers and walkers and people with their dogs on a leash. Picnics with blankets and traditional baskets. Kids walking on the concrete that surround the huge fountain that makes up the middle of this main part of the park. A mother scolding her child to get away from it before she accidently gets her dress wet.

The fountain. Something about seeing it clicks in your mind.

The fountain.

You remember.

You pull out your phone and go to the text message screen. You scroll past all the texts of concern and then well wishes from friends. There were quite a few and with everything going on you completely forgot about the message.

The one you received while you were in Breadstix with Sam at lunch that day.

8p at Cherokee Park fountain, it read.

But that was last Monday and you obviously hadn't shown up. But you had never heard back either.

The number was blocked so there was no way to reply. But this isn't the only way your C.I.'s can reach you. You suddenly wonder if it might have been Artie. And if it wasn't then it was entirely possible that he might be able to find out who it had been. There was one way to find out.

_It was early in the morning the first time you met with Artie. You remember because the sun was just rising over the trees by the fountain. He had contacted you via phone when you were working on a case about 2 years ago. A woman had been assaulted and beaten to within an inch of her life. While you didn't normally handle these types of cases there was no other woman on duty when the call came in from the hospital and you volunteered to take it after learning the victim in question had specifically asked for a female. You can only imagine the trauma that she had been through so you didn't hesitate to say ok._

_When you got back from the hospital after taking the woman's statement you had a message left by a man saying her had some information on a woman who had been attacked. He asked to meet you at the Cherokee Park fountain at 9 am the next day. You were there a few minutes before 9 when a man came down the path to the fountain in a wheelchair. He had a latte sitting in his lap between his legs and a camera around his neck. Like he was there to take pictures or something. You knew right off the bat that he wasn't. He was too nervous, a slight sheen across his brow which made no sense because it was cool in the morning. But you didn't want to scare him off so you just stood by the fountain looking at the sun and waiting for him to speak__._

_It was only a few moments before you heard __"Detective Pierce__?"_

_You replied only with a slight arch of your eyebrow and the words, __"Yes.__ And you are…?"_

"_My name is Artie and I left you a message about the assault on the woman."_

_You reach your hand out to shake his confirming you suspicions that he is outside his element. His grip is sweaty. "Why did you want to meet here instead of coming down to the station to give us this information?"_

_He took a sip of his latte and was slow to reply. "I work as a volunteer in the homeless shelter down on 27__th__ Street. I hear a lot from the people who come in to the facility – both men and women since we have locked segregation for each sex. A man came in last night and was talking to someone else in the shelter and mentioned that he knew the guy who attacked the woman earlier that evening. I don't want to cause an issue with me volunteering at the shelter as it is important to me but I knew I couldn't withhold this from the authorities."_

_Artie begins to tell you what he knows about the man he heard this from and when you can find him in the shelter. You write all the information down that Artie tells you and you again thank him for it. _

"_I think I coul__d provide information to you from time to time," he tells you as you both make your way down the path to the place where your cars are parked. "What would be the best way to reach you?"_

_You give him your cell phone number and tell him that he can always contact you by sending a text to meet you at the fountain. _

Artie has been a reliable source over the past 2 years. He has heard things in his role as a volunteer that most people don't in their normal course of work. Word on the streets always seems to flow through the shelters and he has given you many tips that resulted in arrests. Including the assault on the woman that first brought you together. That scumbag got 25 years. And he quite likely never would have been caught without that original information from Artie.

You decide to wait until things settle down and you are back at work before contacting him.

You also decide you are going to go into the precinct for a bit. While it is Saturday, you know the paperwork is piling up from your unplanned absence over the course of the last 5 days. The paperwork isn't going to file itself. You head back to your car, leaving behind the ducks that have moved on to the next bread-giving human.

/

Your desk is an absolute disaster. Not just from the paperwork but from the pile of letters that are sitting by your keyboard. Kept together by a rubber band that seems to be close to snapping.

"What are you doing here Pierce?"

Dave Karofsky has been a detective for the past 10 years. He isn't the type of detective you ever want to be. He's lazy and lacks compassion. His demeanor toward many victims shows that lack of compassion. His belly that hangs over his belt shows the lazy.

"Just coming in to catch up on some paperwork Dave," you reply while trying to gather the rubber banded letters and place them on the floor.

"Yeah," Karofksy continues. "All those have been coming in over the past few days since the shooting. I guess shooting scumbags means people like the police again."

You choose to ignore him because you can tell he is itching to get you going. What's new. He knows you think that's crap and that many officers don't even un-holster their gun in their careers let alone shoot someone. Maybe coming in here was a bad idea. You really don't have the patience to deal with Karofsky's bullshit when the day is gorgeous like this and you are still a little shattered from everything that has happened.

You turn your computer on and reach to grab your desk phone so you can check your messages. Hearing the automated system tell you there are 37 messages waiting you decide you are not going to start this endeavor without coffee. Your hangover has subsided but some good old fashion caffeine might help get you into gear. You stand and head to the break room down the hall. You run into several other officers and they all take a few minutes to check on you and ask about your partner Sam.

You need to call him back but it just hasn't seemed a priority.

By the time you are heading back to your desk with now lukewarm coffee in your hand it has been about 15 minutes. You sit the coffee on the desk and reach back to pick up the phone when you see it.

A card is sitting right next to the handset, on top of the numbers so you couldn't even dial out without removing it. It's a business card and in neat handwriting it reads "Sunday. 4p". You turn it over and almost drop it.

The other side reads Dr. Chase Strathorn.

You stand and look around. No one even looks up and thankfully Karofsky's on the phone. You don't want to call attention to yourself but you know that somehow between when you went to get coffee and you came back Santana was here. Jesus Christ was she following you? You are sure she must be aware that you are off until Monday and yet she knew enough to know you would be here.

"Fuck this," you mumble aloud, grabbing your keys and turning off the computer. You weren't gone that long so maybe she's still in the building.

You are coming down the main hall when you hear the sound of heels clicking against the floor. You look up to catch just a glimpse of dark hair rounding a corner and you take off in a sprint. You're at the same corner within seconds and see the door to the bathroom shutting and without hesitation you slam it open ready to confront Santana.

Rachel.

It's Rachel by the sink when you enter the bathroom and she jumps from the whirlwind that is you coming in.

"Jesus Christ Detective," she starts. "You scared me to death!"

You feel a tad bit guilty about startling her but there are more pressing issues to contend with at the moment.

"Did you put this on my phone," you demand holding the business card reading the fake doctor's name in front of her face.

"I did," Rachel replies. "The Lieutenant asked me to do so when she called me this morning. She said you would be in sometime today and she wanted me to get it on your desk before you arrived but I was a little late and saw your computer was on. I simply placed it by your phone as instructed."

"How in the hell did she know I was coming here?" Your anger now is more overwhelming than when Santana first confessed to this in Dr. Strathorn's office. "Is she following me?"

Rachel drops her head slightly and takes a deep breath. She looks around before realizing no one is going to overhear this conversation taking place in the women's bathroom where there is only one stall.

"She is very good at her job Detective. She has studied you for a long time and is familiar enough with you to understand your patterns and the way you reason. She isn't always right of course but I will be honest.. ..the majority of the time she is."

Rachel looks at you like you are getting ready to argue but the truth is there is no point. The only thing you can do to keep control of this situation is to perhaps somehow throw Santana off her game. Otherwise you know you are just a lackey to her and you aren't going to have that.

"Where is she?"

Rachel's eyes grow wide and her mouth opens for a moment before she tries to answer.

"I…I don't know where she is Detective."

"That's complete and utter bullshit Rachel and we both know it," you growl at her. "And from the look on your face moments ago I am sure that no one has ever actually asked you that question when it comes to your boss. But I can assure you that while your boss may know a lot about me, she doesn't know everything. I am not predictable like a little Pavlovian dog who hears the bell ring and comes running. I am not a little plaything that can be beckoned and commanded as to where to go and when to be there. I don't care how great she thinks she is or how good at her job she is or how much she claims to need me. I am a highly decorated Detective and I have my own deductive reasoning abilities. If you won't tell me where she is then I guess I'll have to figure it out myself. But keep in mind that you people came to me for help and yet you haven't told me anything about what's going on. You have followed me, kept files on intimate parts of my life and I am sure the violation I am feeling now from all of that will be nothing compared to once I get the true picture…. If I am ever given it. But I ask one simple question of you and that's too much. Fuck this whole thing Rachel. And you can tell that to Santana tomorrow at 4p because my ass is going to be as far away from Dr. Chase Strathorn's office as is humanly possible. Tell Santana she can find some other schmuck to give her the 'help' she needs."

You're panting and need to catch your breath.

Rachel just stands there. There is a light in her eyes that wasn't there before during your outburst. She doesn't say a word and the two of you continue to lock eyes for a few more moments until you turn to open the bathroom door back to the hall.

"It's Saturday," Rachel states quietly looking at the floor.

"Yeah?" You reply turning to look at her again.

She's almost whispering. "If Santana goes out there is only one place she goes on Saturdays."

"And where is that Rachel?"

Rachel returns her eyes to yours before she replies.

"Nowhere."

/

You pull up to the bar and find a place to park in the back because you want to gather your surroundings before you go in. You have heard of this bar before but because it is in the opposite direction of the way you travel home, you haven't ever had the occasion to go in.

The sign outside is lit up because it's nearly 10:00 and night has fallen.

Nowhere, it reads.

You walk in and it's filled with people. The actual bar lies against the entire left wall and it reminds you of Seasons where you and Santana shared tequila last night. There are no bar stools though and the section is fairly narrow. You walk up to the bar and ask for a Bacardi and Diet from the attractive male bartender who smiles at you with bleached out white teeth and a mohawk.

""Hey, I don't think I have seen you here before," he tells you handing back your card that he swiped to keep your tab open. "I'm Puck."

You offer him a slight smile but you have to talk up to be heard over the music that is thumping loud out of speakers you cannot see.

"Brittany," you reply.

You're slightly turned against the bar so you can scan the room but still make it look like you might be carrying on a conversation with Puck. You see people all around the bar area and some outside on the open patio but there is no sign of who you are looking for. The bar itself doesn't appear to be very large so your first thought is she isn't here.

"Are you here for the open mic?" Puck asks.

You pause and look back to him.

"Yeah."

"It's back through there," Puck replies and points towards a hallway with two swinging saloon type doors across the walk through. "I think they may have just started."

You push through the doors slowly and quickly survey the room. There are tables and chairs lining around a small stage that takes up the far end of the wall. It is all in a slight semi-circle and you can tell this must be a popular venue because even with all the people out front, this room is filled to near capacity.

There is a man singing on the stage with a guitar in hand. Some soulful song whose words aren't resonating with you at this point because you are still scanning the room. But it sounds decent enough.

You manage to take a seat at a table far in the back, nearly pushed into a corner. The table is small and you surmise only used for cocktails between the two people that were designed to share it. Larger parties were up closer to the stage. You guess the room seats about 100 with a little standing room if needed. The lights are low said for the stage which is lit up like a Christmas tree. There is little chance that any one up there performing will be able to see into the crowd more than the first few tables.

Guitar man finishes his song to applause by the audience. You can't really make out anyone in particular because you are still trying to adjust to the lighting. You are still occupied going over the room when a server comes up to you and checks to see if you're ok.

"Do you need another drink," the pretty girl asks.

You look down and see that you have just a swallow of the rum left and repeat your order to her. You tell her you have a tab at the bar with Puck and she tells you she'll be right back and wanders out through the doors to the bar.

You are still surveying the audience but you cannot make out much other than the back of patron's heads and profiles.

After a few minutes, pretty-server-girl comes back and hands you the new drink with a napkin and leans over to grab your now empty glass. The music is cueing up for the next open mic performer, you can hear it in the background behind the noise of people chatting between songs.

You look up to thank the server for the drink but your mouth stays open and no words come out.

On the stage in front of the microphone is Santana. The music grows louder and the chatting ceases.

"_I hear the ticking of the clock, I'm laying here the room's pitch dark__._

_I wonder where you are tonight, no answer on the telephone._

_And the night goes by so very slow,_

_Oh I hope that it won't end though. Alone."_

She is singing Heart's Alone but not in the rocked out version that they are famous for but the slow, heart wrenching version that is more Celine Dion.

She's not only singing it. She is singing it well.

"_Til now, I only got by on my own. I never really cared until I met you._

_And now it chills me to the bone. How do I get you alone?"_

Unlike the guy before her with his soulful sound that you listened to but didn't hear, Santana's words seem to hit you in the gut with the power behind them. The electricity is there again even though she doesn't know you are here. You find her incredibly beautiful.

"_You don't know how long I have wan__ted to touch your lips and hold you tight._

_You don't know how long I have waited and I was going to tell you tonight._

_But the secret is still my own. And my love for you is still unknown. Alone."_

The music is swells during the interlude and you have time to judge what you have just heard. Santana's voice is husky and sultry and - let's face it - incredibly sexy. But she is sad as she sings it. You can feel it, hear it in the way she delivers the lines. She is making your heart beat faster for reasons you cannot truly understand.

She is singing the chorus into the microphone again and she doesn't look up once into the crowd. It looks like her eyes are closed. You wonder what she is thinking about as she is singing. You don't know anything about her and all this is doing is making you want to change that. But you feel guilty now. Like you have stumbled into something too private. Even after all that Santana knows about you, this makes you feel you have crossed a line.

She is finishing the song and you are still sitting there, nearly in awe.

You realize you have to get out of there before she can possibly see you and this is the best time.

You stand, leaving your drink and walk toward the saloon doors just as Santana is singing the last of the lines. You need to close your tab with Puck the bartender and that's going to take a minute and now you're picking up the pace because you really, really don't want to run into her.

You glance to the side as you are getting ready to slide through the doors and you see a man leaning against the wall by the stage with a huge grin on his face. You didn't notice him before.

You can't help yourself but to stop for a moment when the crowd applauds loudly as Santana thanks them in the microphone and walks off the stage….and right into the arms of the man who wraps her into a huge hug and kisses her quickly on her lips before guiding her away from the stage and….. right toward the doors where you're standing.

You push through them as fast as possible and walk rapidly to the front of the bar. You are trying not to make your fleeing so obvious but there is absolutely no way you are going to let her see you now. You shove through the crowd by the door and get out to the patio before you break into a trot now that you have some room. You are around the corner to your car before you stop and try to catch your breath. You try to convince yourself that the pang in your heart is just nerves because you were afraid to be caught but your head isn't buying it.

You unlock the door, turn the motor over and exhale deeply in your car, trying to collect your thoughts. You did learn some things tonight so there is that. Santana sings. Santana has a boyfriend. Santana sings sad songs in anonymity at an open mic night at a bar called Nowhere.

Santana has a boyfriend.

You pull out from behind the bar where you had parked and turn left and back to your apartment.

It's only a little after 11 when you get home but you are done for the night. Exhausted.

You feel hot and sticky so you jump into the shower and after drying off and lotioning up you slip into your tank top and panties and slide into bed. Lord Tubbington jumps up and walks over your legs to assume his position at the bottom of your bed after you have given him a few scratches under his chin.

You move to turn off the light and see your phone on the night stand along with the business card reminding you that Santana is expecting you to meet her tomorrow at 4p. Like you have a chance in hell of forgetting.

The room nearly goes dark with a flip of the switch of your lamp but there is still a small light glowing from your phone as you turn over and away from it. You're so tired you know you will be asleep within seconds.

After a minute goes by the light on your phone is gone, signaling your download as complete. You added a new song to your iTunes account.

Alone.


End file.
